


Plosive

by radiboyn



Series: Gifted [2]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Autistic Character, Autistic Spencer Reid, autistic shutdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 05:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16190816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiboyn/pseuds/radiboyn
Summary: Incidentally, his first bad day in nine months is also the first time he has a shutdown in front of the team.





	Plosive

It’s funny, Spencer thinks, how the bad days stopped almost immediately after that day on the jet. 

 

He knows, now, that he can do what he needs. Nobody looks at him strangely when his fingers tap against his jawline as he sits cross-legged in his round-table chair, or when he hums under his breath in crowded police precincts, his fingertips smoothing over the silky material of his tie repetitively. If they notice, they don’t care. 

 

He finally feels like he belongs. The tension melts away from his daily life, replaced by a firm, sure knowledge that here, he is supported.

 

Incidentally, his first bad day in nine months is also the first time he has a shutdown in front of the team.

 

The case is overwhelming. A tiny town, three-hundred miles from D.C., overrun with frequent, gory murders of local teenagers. A new teen missing every other evening. A new family with new grief and questions and _noise_ , every other evening. And, by pure chance, he’s the one who has ended up at the precinct alone when they flood in, members of the close-knit community crying and grieving together in his space.

 

He tries his best to keep up his professional front. First and foremost, he’s a representative of the bureau, and he reminds himself that he owes these families the answers they need. Owes them what little peace of mind he can offer with weak statistics and reassurances that they’re doing everything they can. 

 

Except, he’s not. 

 

He’s drained. He’s exhausted from the constant interaction, the constant need to look approachable and professional and open and focused. The need to look _neurotypical_ while his defences are crumbling. 

 

The feel of his phone vibrating in his trouser pocket sends a jolt of anxiety through him, though he can’t work out why-

 

_(he can’t deal with more instructions right now, he’s in overdrive)._

 

He finds a text from Morgan. He has to squint past the bright light of his screen to read it.

 

_Hey pretty boy, driving back to hotel in five, meet outside precinct. Hotch wants everyone to get some food and some rest_

 

While the thought of food makes Spencer’s stomach churn, the idea of getting to his own hotel room and shutting the door behind him sounds more appealing now than it ever has. 

 

He blinks down at his phone, unmoving as he tries to get his sluggish brain to kickstart the process of heading out of the precinct. 

 

By some miracle, he ends up stood outside the precinct within five minutes, his satchel strapped over his chest and his woollen overcoat draped across his right arm, the evening air too muggy for him to wear it. He silently thanks his legs for working on autopilot to get him there, certain he wouldn’t have managed otherwise. 

 

When JJ, Hotch and Morgan pull up in the SUV, he clambers wordlessly into the backseat, keeping his satchel and coat on his lap. 

 

“You look exhausted,” JJ smiles at him in the mirror from the front seat. “Busy day?”

 

He manages a noncommittal hum in the affirmative, trying for a weary smile that he doesn’t know if he’s pulled off or not. 

 

“Gideon and Elle are both on their way back. I want everyone to get an early night before tomorrow,” Hotch says from the driver’s seat. 

 

They fall into comfortable conversation after that. Spencer takes in half of what’s being said, but the constant chatter over the tinny sound of the radio only serves to push him deeper and deeper into overload, his tolerance for any sort of stimulation dwindling rapidly.

 

He’s been strung out and on edge all day. His brain sees the short car ride as the perfect time to switch off before it short-circuits. 

 

As always, he doesn’t know what’s happening until it’s too late.

 

“Reid?” 

 

He hears and registers Derek’s voice, inviting him to participate in the conversation, but all he can do is turn his head towards the window and away from his team. He wants to say things like _I’m sorry for being rude_ and _I’m not ignoring you_ , but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know why not. 

 

(Later, he’ll recognise that it’s because he can’t.)

 

He stops taking in what’s being said after that.

 

A distant part of his brain still recognises the succession of changes in tone and volume around him. They sound worried, at first, which eventually dulls down into quieter concern before the amicable conversation resumes, noticeably quieter than before. 

 

He feels guilty. His heart echoes _sorry_ with every beat, and he wishes that he could explain – to the team, to _himself_ – what’s going on. His right hand comes up to cover his eyes, his left urging to tug his coat upwards, _upwards-_

 

He hears Hotch’s voice echo in the back of his mind. 

 

_‘I need you to remember that you can do whatever it is that makes you feel comfortable.’_

 

It’s all the permission he needs. He tugs the coat up and over his head, covering his face and most of his upper body with the dark fabric. He knows he must look ridiculous, but he feels safer, more secure under the heavy material that physically shields him from the rest of the world. 

 

Embarrassment wars with the desperate need for calm and quiet and solitude for the rest of the drive. The rational side of his brain screams at him to take the coat off his face, to sit up like a normal adult who can handle a bit of light conversation, but-

 

but the serene little bubble he’s created around himself keeps him separated from the outside world that seems so desperate to drown him in its input. He doesn’t need to worry about his facial expressions or his reactions or his _vibe-_

_(“People have vibes?” he asks Morgan. “What?”_

_“Yeah, kid. Like… you can tell what a person’s about just by looking at them. You get a read off them.”_

_“Isn’t that just profiling?”_

_Morgan laughs.)_

 

-he can just be. That’s the most important thing. Under his coat, hidden from the rest of the world, he can just be Spencer Reid. 

He feels the car roll to a stop underneath him. The others are silent for a long while (probably communicating through a series of looks and mouthed words, Spencer speculates), and he jumps when he hears two car doors – Morgan and JJ’s – slamming in quick succession.

 

The silence continues after that. Spencer is grateful for it; he can feel the elements of his mind falling back into place, the lack of sensory input allowing for processing time that has evaded him all day. He doesn’t remove the coat, choosing to remain curled up and leaning against the window while he breathes steadily, his head emptying of all the unnecessary fragments of information he’s accumulated over the day, his mental filter sliding back into place. 

 

“Reid,” Hotch says evenly after what must be at least five minutes. “Are you alright?”

 

Spencer pulls the coat down, his hair ruffling as he re-joins the world, feeling a little more in himself than before.

 

“Hi,” he says weakly, unsurprised to find his voice scratchy. 

 

“Are you alright?” Hotch repeats, patient as ever.

 

Reid nods, shifting in his seat. He avoids eye contact with Hotch, but knows he understands. He always understands. 

 

“Do you want to talk about your day?” Hotch offers.

 

He does, but not here. It’s cold in the car, and the thought of a quiet hotel room where he can wear comfortable clothes (which equates to pyjamas and no socks) and stim as he pleases is appealing.

 

He wets his lips. This is the hard part. Talking when he’s still in the throes of shutdown isn’t impossible, but it’s not easy, his tongue heavy and uncoordinated in his mouth. 

 

“Can- I’d like- back into the hotel?” he tries, flushing with vague embarrassment as the words come out mangled and wrong.

 

_(He knows the words for this. Semi-verbal. Forgets them in the moment.)_

 

“We can talk in the hotel,” Hotch nods, unfastening his seatbelt.

 

Reid’s legs work on autopilot as he follows Hotch dazedly into the hotel reception. He’s more alert than he had been half an hour ago, but he’s still not fully with it, his brain on _necessary functions only_ mode. He’s not sure of the sequence of events that lead to him being sat on his bed in his hotel room, Hotch stood in front of him, but he’s grateful for the other man guiding him through, certain he’d be stuck hovering in a hallway somewhere if left to his own devices. 

 

“What do you need?” 

 

Spencer opens his mouth to speak, but finds the words won’t arrange themselves in his head. He squirms under Hotch’s scrutiny, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he looks around the room for something, some inspiration for what to do next. 

 

His gaze falls upon a hotel-branded company notepad sat on the desk in the corner of the room, a pen sitting atop it. He shoots up to retrieve it, scribbling out a note before returning to the bed and handing it to Hotch.

 

_Half an hour to myself._

 

Hotch scans the note quickly before looking back up, frowning slightly. “Do I need to be worried?”

 

Reid takes the notepad off him, scratching down another message.

 

_I’m okay. I’ll explain later._

 

Hotch hesitates, but seems to decide that listening to Reid is probably the best course of action. “I’ll be back in half an hour, then,” he says as he turns to leave, “send me a message if you need anything.” 

 

Reid smiles in a way that he hopes says _thank you._

 

Once the door is shut and Hotch’s footsteps have disappeared down the corridor, Spencer wrestles with his shoes and socks, feeling himself relax with every second that he’s alone. It’s not that he doesn’t like being around the team, but he needs this, needs time to just be himself without worrying over what others are picking up on. 

 

“Done,” he whispers to himself without real reason. The plosive feels good on his tongue, so he repeats it. “Done. Done, done, done.”

 

He finds himself pacing after that, and lets his feet carry him where they desire. “Plosive,” he says with more confidence. “A consonant sound that is formed by completely stopping airflow. Voiced or voiceless. Plosive. Pacing. Done.”

 

When Hotch returns, as promised, half an hour later, this is how he finds Spencer, muttering words and definitions to himself, pacing like clockwork. 

 

“Profiling. The act or process of extrapolating information about a person based on-“

 

“-known traits or tendencies from the analysis of the crimes committed.” Hotch interrupts. 

 

Reid spins around, smiling as he spots Hotch, obviously previously unaware of his presence. 

 

“Okay?” Hotch asks.

 

Reid nods, smiling. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> This probably makes z e r o sense to read but what can you do
> 
> Hope someone enjoys <3


End file.
